◆◆◇◇◆◆
A Defense Line of a Hundred Thunderbolts, or: A Clamorous Parade
The "large-scale security commission" from Comet Center's management office turned out, in practice, to be escort duty for the Comet Caravan.
Once every several years, a convoy of enormous transport ships made the crossing from the resource-rich outer asteroid belt, hauling rare superconducting metals in quantities that warranted a formation stretching literally several kilometers end to end. The sheer density of wealth involved made it an irresistible target for every raider and pirate in the sector, and the management office had responded to this by hiring every capable freelancer and treasure hunter within reach.
Several hours out from Comet Center, the assigned defensive sector had filled with familiar faces.
The Golden Star was there, naturally — gleaming with its customary solar intensity. Arranged around it, the crews of ships that Ledea had seen before in Guild halls and at various scenes of minor trouble: contractors of every description, each with their own particular edge.
"Heh — didn't expect to see the Mace sisters' old work ship getting dragged out here. Try not to get in the way!"
The voice on the comm belonged to the crew of the Triple Needle — a heavily armored assault craft operated by a three-person team of rough-work specialists who had caused some friction near Subaru Station's waters before. The mixed unit also included a bounty-hunter couple in a nimble mid-size vessel, a modified salvage-and-construction ship crewed by a former junk dealer, and a dozen-odd other ships in total, holding formation along the flanks of the massive transport convoy.
"Hmm. How boldly the self-styled rough-work experts bark."
Katrine's voice came through the comm from the Golden Star's cockpit, accompanied by the distinctive sound of a fan snapping open.
"With such a magnificent defensive cornerstone as myself in place, the rest of you need only concern yourselves with sweeping up whatever debris I happen to leave behind. A most generous arrangement, if I do say so."
"Sure, sure — the gold-plated old lady talks a good game~. Sis, can I mute that particular speaker?"
Shutia reached for the console. Ledea stopped her with one hand.
"Shutia — keep the channel open. We're approaching the designated alert point shortly: the Fossa Belt, high debris density."
On cue, the tactical radar erupted. Warning tones, wall to wall. The screen flooded with red.
"Here they come! All hands — this is what we're getting paid for!"
The Triple Needle gunned its engines and shot forward.
Out of the shadows of the Fossa Belt came dozens of raider fast-attack craft: individually light, collectively overwhelming, and moving with the immediate, deliberate aim of reaching the transport containers directly rather than engaging the escort fleet.
"They're not just coming from the front — they're wrapping around the starboard rear!"
The Triple Needle, having charged in first, found itself rapidly surrounded. Gatling railgun fire raked across its hull and forced it back trailing sparks. The bounty-hunter couple moved to support, picking targets with precision sniper lasers and breaking the formation on one flank — but the weight of numbers was telling, and a concentrated plasma cannon volley was converging on the lead transport ship.
"Oho-ho-ho! How disappointing, everyone! This is where I come in."
The Golden Star swept forward in a clean arc and put itself between the convoy and the incoming fire.
Every raider in range turned their weapons on it simultaneously. Plasma charges. High-output laser bursts. A wall of directed energy washed over the gold hull, and for a moment the sector turned white.
When the light cleared, the Golden Star was exactly as it had been. Unmarked. Gleaming. The mirror-deflection armor had caught every joule of it and sent it scattering harmlessly into the void, and the ship sat in the aftermath as though the entire exchange had been a minor inconvenience.
"...she wasn't just talk," someone from the Triple Needle muttered.
"That sort of thing is no more troubling to me than taking afternoon tea. Now then — allow me to offer my response. Taste the Electro-Magnetic Rose!"
From the Golden Star's hull, a launcher shaped like a rose bud deployed and fired. The projectile detonated in the center of the raider formation — and bloomed into a wide-spreading net of pink electromagnetic interference. The fast-attack craft it caught went dark one after another, systems collapsing, drifting.
The surviving raiders, regrouping, made a rapid assessment of the field. The Golden Star: impervious. The other contractors: currently occupied. The Silver Anchor: old. Small. Slow-looking. Obviously the softest target on the board.
They redirected.
"Hey — anchor girls! You've got a flanking unit incoming! Get out of there!"
The veteran crew of the salvage-and-construction ship shouted it across the comm. Ledea's expression did not change.
"Shutia — fix starboard thruster output at thirty percent. We're moving to evasion and suppression."
"Ready, sis — go whenever!"
Shutia hit her console with evident enthusiasm. To her, this sort of skirmish was simply enjoyable collaborative work with her sister.
Three raider craft came in hard, harpoon missiles and autocannons firing simultaneously.
Ledea read the trajectories and tilted the ship. Minimum movement. The Silver Anchor slipped between the incoming fire as though the available gaps had been measured in advance.
"Now."
The word was short. Shutia pulled the trigger before the echo.
The traction anchor launched from the Silver Anchor's bow — not aimed at any of the raiders directly, but at a conveniently sized piece of debris floating nearby, roughly the same dimensions as a raider hull. The claws bit. The winch engaged. Ledea turned the ship, building centrifugal force, and the debris came around in a hard arc —
"Go!"
— and connected with the lead craft's cockpit section with a sound that had no business traveling through vacuum but did anyway, conducted through the communication circuits. The lead craft crumpled and spun away into the distance.
"They used debris as a mass weapon—?!"
It was the Silver Anchor's signature. It surprised everyone who saw it for the first time.
The remaining two craft tried to open the range. Too late. Ledea reversed the ship's attitude and used the anchor's own recoil to launch it as a direct projectile — the ultra-hardened alloy head punched through the second craft's main thruster assembly, and the shockwave from that impact caught the third craft's wing and took it out of action along with it.
Precise evasion. Logical suppression. Equipment that any contractor might carry, applied with an economy of motion that left nothing wasted.
The contrast with the Golden Star's spectacular display could not have been more complete. The comm channel went quiet for a moment.
"...All right. I'll admit it. That's not bad at all."
The Triple Needle's pilot, who had been dismissing them as ballast since before the engagement started, said this in a somewhat strained voice.
"Hmm — that sort of thing is just standard practice for us, isn't it?"
Shutia addressed the comm with a cheerful imitation of Katrine's habitual phrasing.
"You aberrant little stalker, don't get carried away! But..." A slight pause, and something that might have been pride, reluctantly expressed. "...Ledea's piloting, I'll grant you. I can't argue with that."
Katrine's voice carried the faint sound of someone being honest against their better instincts.
"All vessels — don't relax yet. The mission runs until every unit in the caravan clears the Belt. Maintain defensive formation."
Ledea closed the exchange in her usual even tone, one hand already back on the controls. Her long silver hair needed straightening. She didn't bother.
"Ahh — sis said 'school trip' just now instead of 'mission'... too adorable... audio archive: secured."
"Shutia. Focus."
"Yes, sis!"
The caravan moved on through the Fossa Belt, nudged steadily forward by a coalition of freelancers who had no particular reason to work well together and were managing it anyway. The compensation at the end of the route was real. That, in the frontier, was generally sufficient.